Arms of Love (21 page)

Chapter 17

J
oseph Wyse had no fear of retaliatory violence as he stood in the dark of night with a handful of stones. The only reason he had not been unduly pressed beyond triple taxes was the fact that he had paid off the tax collector and the sergeant in charge of commandeering stock and land. He kept these men satisfied with various bonuses and still did not fear for his coffers, for his family had come to the New World at quite an advantage and the horse farming had proved lucrative of recent years.

He aimed with a precise arm at the glass panes of the kitchen window. A second rock followed with its resounding crash, and he hunched his shoulders forward and made for the house steps as candlelight appeared from within.

Adam came out first, looking alert and angry, and Joseph met him when he would have gone off the porch into the dark after the supposed villain.

“’Tis too late,
sohn
. I heard the sound of hoofbeats fading on the night air. The miscreant cannot be caught.”

“Then I’ll go after him,” Adam asserted, but Joseph caught his arm.

“Ye’ll not upset your mother by some fool chase in the black of night. Now put your mind at rest. You can go for replacement glass tomorrow.”

Adam backed off and was sweeping the glass from the floor when Ellen and Isaac came into the room.

“
Ach
, Joseph . . . are you sure things are all right?” Ellen asked worriedly as she bent to lift a smooth stone from beneath the table.

Joseph caught her close and smiled reassuringly. “All is as should be, as it always is. Now,
kumme
, let us all go back to bed. Adam can attend to this in the morning.”

Adam followed his family slowly back to bed. He did not speak the words that pressed hard against his lips and played sleek havoc with his mind. He had not been asleep when the rocks had struck, but rather was moon-gazing on the fair but chill night. He had seen his father take aim at his own house and then cross the yard to appear as if he had been the first to arise. Adam turned the images over and over in his mind, like a child with a puzzle box, but he could make no sense of it. Why would his father strike against his own? And why hadn’t Adam himself had enough courage to face the man and tell him what he knew? It was enough to keep him tense and sleepless on his bed for many hours to come.

When Monday morning dawned fair and clear, he had decided to dismiss the odd behavior of his parent out of hand and focus instead on driving the smaller wagon into town.

Adam always found it fascinating to visit the glass-making shop and furnace where sand and minerals were melted down to make glass for necessities like windows, but also for decorative toys and vases. Although he knew that such ornamentation was frowned upon by his people, he could not help but be drawn to the various samples of the revered art that were displayed in the shop. He had made friends with
Herr
and
Frau
Wistar, who owned the shop and who operated their business with a gut amount of cheer. He wished that this day they might bring some lift to his flagging spirits over Lena.

As he had hoped,
Frau
Wistar greeted him with a bright smile. “Adam Wyse, you come at a good time. Herman is in the furnace room and tries for a new color today. I know how you love to watch. You will go in,
ya
?”

He nodded and made his way to the back of the shop, leaving the measurements for the panes of glass in
Frau
Wistar’s capable hands.

He entered the furnace room, the blast of heat taking him by shock as always.

Herman Wistar, a German immigrant and rotund, jovial man, looked across the long iron with its tip of fire that he held in an elbowlength glove and greeted Adam with a smile.

“Ah, Adam. You have come just in time, ya? The chemist got in a new supply of sulfur powders from Philadelphia this morn.”

Adam grinned. “You’ll try for the yellow again?”

The older man nodded happily, and Adam moved to where he could see the opened packet of powdered sulfur on a bench nearby. In times past Adam had watched his friend combine different compounds and minerals with molten glass to change its color from its natural aqua tint. Adam had seen success with blue-violet, green, and more predominantly, brown glass, but sulfur powders had yet to produce the elusive yellow glass so highly sought by wealthy households for doorknobs and servingware. Instead, at the irritation of the chemist who prized his mixtures, after four packets of powders only amber-colored glass had burned through. He hoped his friend would have better fortune this day.

Herman heated the glass in the stone furnace until it became molten. “Almost like liquid,
ya
?” he called, and Adam nodded, fascinated. “This time you try, my friend. Perhaps a younger hand will have more luck. Put on a glove.”

Adam slid one of the leather gloves from the workbench onto his hand, then turned to the packet of powder. He had seen Herman combine things often enough to figure he knew how to give it a go. He tilted the packet of powder carefully into the palm of his gloved hand, then turned toward the small, molten orange piece of glass that Herman held.

Taking a step closer, so that he could feel the heat from the piece come to his face, he turned his hand and flung the powder into the liquid glass. It absorbed instantly, all orange still and glowing. Herman laughed as he twisted his arm and used a set of prongs to cut the glass into an even smaller piece, the shape of a teardrop, just large enough for a woman’s pendant. He added a small hole for a tie as the glass cooled, but Adam knew they still couldn’t be sure of the true color until the temperature had lowered completely.

Herman pulled off his gloves. “Now we wait, eh? And you tell Herman why you look so low, my young friend.”

Adam glanced up, surprised. He didn’t think that any of his true feelings showed, but Herman Wistar was wise and knew him well.

“What vexes all men’s souls ails me,” Adam admitted, sweeping his eyes downward.

Herman laughed and slapped his thigh. “A woman? You, Adam? Can you not have your pick of maidens both young and old?”

Adam sighed and shook his head. “ ’Tis only the one that has ever had the power to hurt . . . yet to catch a man’s breath and steal it away ’til the wanting for air becomes delicious torture in itself.”

Herman smiled. “Now that much I know and can understand. My fair Hannah, ah . . . she led me long about the chase.” His eyes held the softened look of fond memories. “I love her yet, the answer to my heart’s longing. And you too will find your heart’s desire, Adam. Perhaps the answer lies in the glass.”

He reached behind Adam and lifted a perfect translucent yellow teardrop from the cooling rack.

Adam stared at the glass in amazement, then broke into a grin. “It’s yellow!”

“Ya.” Herman beamed back. “And it is yours . . . to give to what ails you, eh?”

Adam backed off, shaking his head. “Herman, I cannot take it. You’ve been waiting a lifetime for this, and the Amish do not wear such things, as beautiful as it is. Please keep it—or give it to your true heart, for that is what she is.”

“
Ya
, you are right, my friend. The first yellow, I will give to her, eh? And you will join us for a meal to celebrate!”

Adam nodded as Herman hurried off with the clear yellow teardrop. He stood alone in the blowing heat from the furnace and thought of Lena. He knew that her heart would never be swayed by the fine things of earth. She was true to her Amish roots, while he . . .

He sighed aloud and fingered the cast iron edge of the tongs, thinking about the breakage his father had done the night before. It was enough to make Adam feel like he wasn’t sure exactly what he was true to, what his heritage was.

Ach
, he understood the Wyse lineage, the sufferings of his forefathers, and the work of his
fater
to bring about a new life in a new land. But who he was in Christ, as his father on earth exemplified Christ, remained as elusive an identity as the yellow
glaws
, as the mystery of his past—the childhood years that he could not seem to recall. His head began to ache, and he left his questions in the room, going into the shop to share in the Wistars’ happiness.

On Monday morning Lena was digging in the winter rye, which she had sown herself last year to be a green manure crop for the carrots and parsley that would be planted soon. She considered the warmth of the sun and wondered if she might add a row of early potatoes to be grown under some of the green manure as well. She paused to swipe at her brow, feeling sweaty already though the day had hardly started. She did not really love the work in the kitchen
gorda
and much preferred to work among the grove of crab apple trees that were part of the
farm’s
livelihood. But
Fater
saw the kitchen
gorda
to be women’s work and did not want his daughter to work “afield.” It was only during the business of fall harvest that she was permitted to handle the apples in the picking, selling, and drying.

She was just debating the merits of pruning the gooseberries versus setting out a few strawberry plants when Isaac came walking toward her from the forest. She thought for a moment that it might be Adam, and had to ignore the prick of disappointment when she recognized the different gait of the man. Still, she plastered a smile on her lips and called to him in greeting as he waved.

She laid down her spade and wiped her hands on her apron as he drew near, carrying his gun and bearing a bouquet of the first spring wildflowers, which he offered to her.

“Lena, I
kumme
early, I know. But I would have a word with your father, if I may.”

She wet her lips and reached out an impulsive hand to touch his arm as she clutched the flowers. “Isaac, I know of what you would speak and how you mean to be proper, but to be truthful . . . Last week when you brought the venison, I spoke at length with my father.” She went on in a rush, determined to have things done quickly, like the lancing of a festering wound, despite her spiritual resolve. “He—he made me see the—great value of you—and, not to be presumptuous, but the offer for my hand. And I—I realized that it would please
Derr Herr
if I should accept any proposal you made to become your wife. I would consider it a great—honor and a privilege of my soul.”